


Saturday Afternoon

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Family Bonding, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-13 07:18:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14744390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: There as a time-honoured, untouchable tradition for Saturday afternoons in the royal household.





	Saturday Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nami/gifts).



The Citadel was a place of tradition and duty; decades and centuries of the Lucis Caelum line upheld to the impossible standards set about by the history— the mythology— of the kingdom and the story of the Crystal. Most heirs to the story were crushed beneath the weight of their own expectations and the struggle to keep their people safe against the onslaught of ancient enemies, and the constant trespass on Lucian lines, burnt up by the same power that drifted through the hallways and curled over the city. There were rooms in the Citadel steeped in the history of the kingdom, the sense of it having seeped into the very stone that made up the grandiose rooms like the cavernous throne room. Or the extravagant, lush living quarters meant to host rivals and diplomats alike— designed and decorated to awe and intimidate more than welcome. The Citadel itself a monument to millennia old traditions and expectations of a kingdom that had a fragile grasp on peace.

There had never been any secret made of the fact that Noctis had always hated some of the rooms; all of the dark, poorly lit remnants of the kingdom’s history and legacy, decorated with ancient golds and paints and whatever else had been cobbled together throughout the centuries. A mix of eras and styles and cycles of fashion thrown together between towers. He would avoid the Citadel itself when he could— hide from the crushing weight of the crown and kingdom. The gilded airs of tradition and duty seemed to cling to him, to every breath and step and movement— a child of the modern era, with a penchant for media and games, rather than ceremony and politics.

But there was a more favourable tradition to uphold. One that had been in place for as long as he could remember. And it brought him back to the towers of the Citadel each week. 

Each generation had their own traditions built upon the others. The dress of the King, the attendance of the Heir, the turns of phrases echoed through resonating stone halls until they became words of ceremony. Each generation had their own habits and traits and dealings as the torch was passed.

“You're expected,” Clarus would say as he left the royal study, the conference room, the sun room. Wherever the Shield trusted the King to stay put and out of trouble while he attended to the Council. While he greeted his own son who had shadowed Noctis through the hallowed halls and into the depths of the royal quarters, deeper voice booming in the familiar corridors. While there were more pressing matters to attend, than just the arrival of the Crown Prince inside the royal residences, attending a royal appointment.

It was a floating appointment— adaptable, but untouchable. Every Saturday afternoon, for at least three hours. The meetings usually stretched far longer than their allotted time, but no one wanted to interrupt as the King passed down lessons to his son and heir. No one wanted to step in with some trivial matter as the King and Crown Prince discussed the state of the kingdom together each week. As they reviewed files and documents and reports long into the night. 

Clarus and Gladiolus never bothered to correct the idea that the two were working. Or that the appointment had really been born of a son’s loneliness acknowledged by a father’s regret. That it had been in place for years before formal training had started.

No common citizen liked the idea that their leaders had time to have fun. Or that they were a family, albeit one with looser bonds than expected, forged through the expectations and appearances and personas presented to the public. No private citizen liked to give too much thought to what hobbies and enjoyment the royal family took. Even if they did love to see Noctis out in the glittering city with his friends. 

This week, the meeting was in the gardens. The spring air carried over the city on the fresh winds, blowing the stagnant winter away from the isolated heart of the kingdom. The cultivated flowers— most planted in the autumn and left to their own quiet growth— had started to bloom along the manicured pathways. The curated bulbs and blossoms all set around their little plaques to identify species and history and lineage, and barely a single petal out of place. 

Regis sat by the little manufactured stream that curled its way through the garden expanse, cane discarded against the little table as he waited and watched the flowers. The flow of water aided by the filters and pumps, and cleaned as it went and wound its way from hidden origins to fish-filled ponds, to skirting the edge of the barrier walls, and falling in an elegant cascade down the tiered levels of the royal gardens before it disappeared beneath the walls that separated the pedigreed flowers of the Citadel from the weeds of the city. 

“They pulled a few of your old toys out from the filters again,” Regis said with a smile as Noctis approached, footfalls heavy on the pristine pathway stone. “I think some of the staff just left them in to complain about later.”

There had been long-gone days when Noctis had chased after the stream. When he had followed the example set by the spring petals and chased after his wayward toy boats and fish until they slipped beyond a grate or beneath a wall he couldn’t follow. Noctis smiled at the small collection set out on the tea table; an ancient plastic toy set next to the delicate porcelain of the King’s teacup. 

“Then I'm not taking the blame for it.”

The second chair scraped the stone as Noctis took his own seat. There was never a third chair, never an invitation to even their Shields in these meetings. The place settings and portions were for two, and two alone.

“How did the charity go?” Regis asked once Noctis was settled; “it was the animal shelters again?”

“Good. Really good. Prompto almost adopted every dog in sight until Gladio reminded him of the food bills.”

Years ago, when Noctis was small and Regis more mobile, he remembered the long nights spent out in the gardens. The tents set up on the well-groomed lawns, the stars projected above their picnics by royal magic; little balls of sparking, glittering electric elements dancing across the winds like confetti. Noctis remembered the chill of the grass in the night, and chasing the lights like they were fireflies while his father laughed. 

They remembered long afternoons, free from the chains of station and Crystal, as they planned out all the fantastic ways they would save the world. As childish flights of fancy for heroic acts under their fabricated stars were left untempered by the experience of the world itself. Regis was never one to dash his son’s dreams against the solid foundations of their palace.

And beneath the shimmer of the Wall, in their tightly guarded peace, anything seemed possible in those days. 

“I'm surprised Gladio was the voice of reason in the matter.”

“Me too. He ended up adopting this ridiculous dog himself. He said it was a running partner, not a pet.”

“Of course.”

“Iris named it ’Flower’.” The teacup Noctis righted in his place chimed against its saucer, the teapot within easy reach.

Regis preferred not to have any intrusions during these meetings now. These weekly catch ups between them. When Noctis was young there was staff on hand to bring anything that was asked for— whatever impulse the prince had for sweets or snacks or games. There were guards and caretakers to step in if needed, when Regis was overwhelmed or taken for a moment by a necessary distraction. Clarus used to come in and out until Noctis fell asleep, pretending not to be keeping an eye on them. Pretending not to worry as was his way. 

The King poured the tea himself, while Noctis picked through the small plate of snacks. “Does Clarus know yet?”

“Probably not. I'm sure you'll hear all about it tomorrow.”

“His own fault,” Regis smiled; “for leaving those two alone with you and a bunch of pets.”

“Is that your reaction? Or his?”

“Both.”

In a few hours they would have dinner together— summoned inside by the more familiar intrusion of an Amicitia or Scientia rather than a general member of staff. They would sit across from each other in a smaller version of the grandiose dining room where events were held to appear ’intimate’ and spend the meal with friends if they could be wrangled together. There would be plans made over a main course, for the next week, and the next. And drinks shared before either of them retired for the night. With the King returning to his untouchable tower, and the Prince running to his self-imposed isolation from duty and tradition. 

Like in Noctis’ youth, there would be plans to go to the theatre made, and promises for more frequent gatherings. There would be invitations for the King to venture out of the Citadel, and to the quiet apartments the Prince had claimed. And a few new additions to the pile of discarded “we should…”

But for now, the gardens stretched out before them in the afternoon light. Petals drifted along the manufactured stream until songbirds plucked them out for new nests and disappeared into the blossom-laden branches. The flowers swayed with the same timing of the heavy branches above. And the fragrant spring perfume slipped through the air around them. 

There would be a walk before dinner. And Noctis would offer his arm in place of the royal cane, while Regis would reminisce about the games that used to be played along the same path. About scraped knees and eager children rushing to climb the sturdy trees that had been planted centuries ago. It was an easier history to manage. It wasn't a thousand years bearing down on them. 

And this particular “we should” was untouchable. A permanent routine neither father nor son would give up quietly.

“You should come out to one of the festivals,” there was a hesitation in the suggestion. “The Galahdian ones are pretty fun. And it's definitely different food.”

“I believe a street festival is more your style of event?”

“That's not what Cor says.” Noctis’ own grin bled into Regis’, the stories of wayward youths far too familiar to them both now. “I’ll bring you something from it, then. Next Saturday.”

“Not food. I doubt it would keep.”

“No, and Iggy would complain, if I tried. I’ll find something.”

“I look forward to seeing what treasures you bring back from this adventure,” Regis teases, years of adventures recorded in royal journals, and years of ’treasures’ filling shelves in quiet studies. “Next Saturday, then.”


End file.
